Butterflies. Always. Though, the cold butt of the knuckles digging into my palm was relaxing. I felt less nervous here than I did reciting monologues to the stuck-up, worn-out xenophobes in the village courtyard . I hadn't the slightest idea who the group of combatants (a term used loosely - the fracas was heart-wrenchingly one-sided) were, but they hadn't yet noticed us creeping towards them. Calvin could probably tell me who they were, actually. He seems to know everything about, well, everything I don't. Especially things outside of Hamlet. Stealing my spotlight, Cal fired a bolt from his hiding spot a few yards to my right. Attention whore. His shot connected, of course, and one of the burly shadows dropped. Looking back across my shoulder, I tried to spot Cue amongst the trees. I didn't, unsurpisingly (she always knew just how to hide from me...), but I could guess that she hadn't moved far. I had an audience: showtime!
"What a piece of work is man!" I propped myself onto my hands and feet, cracking my neck. "How noble in reason, how...infinite in faculties!" Leaving the safety of the ground, I launched myself at the nearest body. "In form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel!" They were too distracted to notice me yet, but I knew Cue and Cal were watching, at least. They were my favorite audience, anyway.
In almost no time, I was in striking distance. It was dark, but I could see a thick neck, big head and bigger muscles. Not much bigger, though; this guy could've been elephant man. Great - a big target. And I was fortunate, the oaf was engaged in a grapple with one of the smaller shadows.
"In apprehension, how like a god!" I raised my fist, the knuckles now warmed by the heat of my hand.
"The Beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!" I hammered my fist into the plump head before me. In an instant, I knew why his head looked so big: my attack connected with a hard shell. A dull WHACK! greeted the brass on my fist. "Fuck!" My fingers throbbed under the knuckles. A fucking helmet! Helmet? Hamlet. Right! Quick breath, relax the face...
"And yet...to me, what is this quintessence of dust?" I gave the target another once-over. Twice-over? A misstep: the hesitation gave him time to attack. A loud bang, burst of light and intense rush of heat past my ear. He had a shotgun. Great. Was he wearing any more armor? His back was concealed by a cape. Should I improvise? Of course.
"Man delights not me," Clenching the toes in my right foot, I took a step back, "nor woman neither." I planted the left securely underneath my weight. "Though..., by your smiling, you seem to say," I kicked, with great force, between the enemy's legs, "so!" The steel toe of my boot connects with tender flesh. The person he'd been grappling, who must've been another actor, played off my monologue and seized the opportunity wrench the shotgun from his enemy. Without warning, he fired point blank, leaving me no time to get out of the splash radius. Sigh.
I could use the iron, anyway.
~-~-~
Act I, Scene IV
Calvin always choked his most important lines when we were brats, but this might've been his worst stage dive yet. As I deftly handled the helmeted heathen harrassing the poor group of gents who were, surpisingly, well dressed for the performance, Cal was floundering to find his footing against his opponent. The burly bandit that my friend was battling was armed with a machine gun. Calvin and his machete were a perfectly comedic mismatch. Maybe he wasn't choking. Was this an inspired comedic act? Maybe the wasteland really has changed the lad.
Despite the horseman's stately stature, it managed to slide itself out of the way of Calvin's slice. The bandit parried with a semi-auto burst from his carbine. Calvin, only now starting to lose his composure, frantically tried to drop to the ground. His footing, ever uneasy, gave out beneath him and he fell to his knees. I cursed, crudely, too entranced by the show to face away from my friend's almost certain death.
This must've been the climax of Calvin's act. A tragedy? It didn't seem to fit his cheerful demeanor. A dark, ironic black comedy? The world outside of Hamlet was an unfortunate one. But, by either some diety's divine intervention or my dastardly distracting sailor's tongue, the would-be assassin missed. Cupid, picking up on her cue in-step, fished a flashlight from her satchel. She blinked it rapidly, a blinding blaze in the eyes of Calvin's assailant. Taking my cue, I cracked my knuckles and propelled myself again into the fray.
“Will all Neptune's oceans wash this blood clean from the brass of my knuckles? No!” This time, my fist connects with flesh, flush against the beast's face. A satisfying crunch echoes across the natural woodland ampitheater. “This, my hand, would rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” T.K.O.! I sighed, under my breath; our troupe needed more actors. My performance was underwhelming without counterpoint.
On the ground below me, Calvin was trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to catch his breath, clearly in awe of my masterful artwork.
“Christ, Bartre. You're even more batty than when I left.” He reached out his hand, and I helped him up. “But, thank you. Your acting is much improved.”
Cringing, I swated his head. “Don't break character, nitwit!” We laughed, harmonizing well before surveying the damage around us.
Act I, Scene III
Butterflies. Always. Though, the cold butt of the knuckles digging into my palm was relaxing. I felt less nervous here than I did reciting monologues to the stuck-up, worn-out xenophobes in the village courtyard . I hadn't the slightest idea who the group of combatants (a term used loosely - the fracas was heart-wrenchingly one-sided) were, but they hadn't yet noticed us creeping towards them. Calvin could probably tell me who they were, actually. He seems to know everything about, well, everything I don't. Especially things outside of Hamlet. Stealing my spotlight, Cal fired a bolt from his hiding spot a few yards to my right. Attention whore. His shot connected, of course, and one of the burly shadows dropped. Looking back across my shoulder, I tried to spot Cue amongst the trees. I didn't, unsurpisingly (she always knew just how to hide from me...), but I could guess that she hadn't moved far. I had an audience: showtime!
"What a piece of work is man!" I propped myself onto my hands and feet, cracking my neck. "How noble in reason, how...infinite in faculties!" Leaving the safety of the ground, I launched myself at the nearest body. "In form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel!" They were too distracted to notice me yet, but I knew Cue and Cal were watching, at least. They were my favorite audience, anyway.
In almost no time, I was in striking distance. It was dark, but I could see a thick neck, big head and bigger muscles. Not much bigger, though; this guy could've been elephant man. Great - a big target. And I was fortunate, the oaf was engaged in a grapple with one of the smaller shadows.
"In apprehension, how like a god!" I raised my fist, the knuckles now warmed by the heat of my hand.
"The Beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!" I hammered my fist into the plump head before me. In an instant, I knew why his head looked so big: my attack connected with a hard shell. A dull WHACK! greeted the brass on my fist. "Fuck!" My fingers throbbed under the knuckles. A fucking helmet! Helmet? Hamlet. Right! Quick breath, relax the face...
"And yet...to me, what is this quintessence of dust?" I gave the target another once-over. Twice-over? A misstep: the hesitation gave him time to attack. A loud bang, burst of light and intense rush of heat past my ear. He had a shotgun. Great. Was he wearing any more armor? His back was concealed by a cape. Should I improvise? Of course.
"Man delights not me," Clenching the toes in my right foot, I took a step back, "nor woman neither." I planted the left securely underneath my weight. "Though..., by your smiling, you seem to say," I kicked, with great force, between the enemy's legs, "so!" The steel toe of my boot connects with tender flesh. The person he'd been grappling, who must've been another actor, played off my monologue and seized the opportunity wrench the shotgun from his enemy. Without warning, he fired point blank, leaving me no time to get out of the splash radius. Sigh.
I could use the iron, anyway.
~-~-~
Act I, Scene IV
Calvin always choked his most important lines when we were brats, but this might've been his worst stage dive yet. As I deftly handled the helmeted heathen harrassing the poor group of gents who were, surpisingly, well dressed for the performance, Cal was floundering to find his footing against his opponent. The burly bandit that my friend was battling was armed with a machine gun. Calvin and his machete were a perfectly comedic mismatch. Maybe he wasn't choking. Was this an inspired comedic act? Maybe the wasteland really has changed the lad.
Despite the horseman's stately stature, it managed to slide itself out of the way of Calvin's slice. The bandit parried with a semi-auto burst from his carbine. Calvin, only now starting to lose his composure, frantically tried to drop to the ground. His footing, ever uneasy, gave out beneath him and he fell to his knees. I cursed, crudely, too entranced by the show to face away from my friend's almost certain death.
This must've been the climax of Calvin's act. A tragedy? It didn't seem to fit his cheerful demeanor. A dark, ironic black comedy? The world outside of Hamlet was an unfortunate one. But, by either some diety's divine intervention or my dastardly distracting sailor's tongue, the would-be assassin missed. Cupid, picking up on her cue in-step, fished a flashlight from her satchel. She blinked it rapidly, a blinding blaze in the eyes of Calvin's assailant. Taking my cue, I cracked my knuckles and propelled myself again into the fray.
“Will all Neptune's oceans wash this blood clean from the brass of my knuckles? No!” This time, my fist connects with flesh, flush against the beast's face. A satisfying crunch echoes across the natural woodland ampitheater. “This, my hand, would rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” T.K.O.! I sighed, under my breath; our troupe needed more actors. My performance was underwhelming without counterpoint.
On the ground below me, Calvin was trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to catch his breath, clearly in awe of my masterful artwork.
“Christ, Bartre. You're even more batty than when I left.” He reached out his hand, and I helped him up. “But, thank you. Your acting is much improved.”
Cringing, I swated his head. “Don't break character, nitwit!” We laughed, harmonizing well before surveying the damage around us.